


"Where The Hell Were You?"

by Luna_Hart



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: 5 times + 1, Angst, Canon Compliant, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Secret Relationship, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: "Where the hell were you?"Five times someone said those words to Collins and one time they didn't.





	"Where The Hell Were You?"

1.

_“Where the hell were you?”_

Collins blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open as exhaustion made his head fuzzy and his muscles tremble. His brain was still catching up with what had just happened and why his face was currently pushed up against something scratchy and sturdy.

One minute he was trying to be quietly slip into his bunk room and then the next he was somehow tripping over his own feet. He would have fallen flat on his face had he not collided with something equally sturdy and scratchy. It was a confusing sensation. The shift of scratchy wool against his cheek and a soft snap behind them told Collins the Englishman he was currently leaning against had reached around him to close the door.

“Why are you awake?” Collins asked as he pulled away, swaying slightly as he regained his balance. In his exhausted state his accent was far thicker than normal, words slurring softly together so it sounded more like _“Why ar ye awaik?”_

“Where the hell were you?” Farrier growled again, eyes flashing. Collins stared stupidly up into those familiar blue-green eyes, almost unrecognizable with the amount of fury that burned there. Collins was rocked back by the intensity of it. He almost fell over again; only Farrier’s steadying hand on his elbow kept him upright.

He couldn't understand why the man was so angry. Farrier had known Collins was on a mission; he and two other RAF pilots had been sent out along with a squadron of Navy Hurricane pilots to intercept a German bombing run over Southern France.

It had been strange, not having Farrier in his ear. His wingman had been grounded due to mechanical issues with his Spitfire. A tight schedule and no other planes available for the Englishman to take had Collins saddled with a rookie pilot who’d only ever flown recon missions before. Farrier had been furious but Collins was able to calm him down enough so the other man didn’t do anything rash or say something stupid to the wrong people.

Collins remembered watching Powell, not yet twenty, climb into the cockpit of a plane he had only flown on training missions. He promised himself that he’d do everything in his power to keep the lad out of trouble and make sure he got home.

It was a promise he wasn’t able to keep.

The fighting had been fierce as Collins and the other two RAF pilots kept the German escorts busy while the Hurricanes dealt with the bombers. Distracted and overwhelmed, the rookie didn’t notice the fighter on his tail until it was too late. Collins was too late. He could only watch as the lad’s Spitfire spiralled from the sky, smoke trail curling behind it.

There was a strange sort of detachment as he looked away just before the plane slammed into the beach below. Adrenaline and battle fever thrummed in his veins, pushing grief to the side. Later, Collins would mourn. He would curse and punch the walls, drink himself into a stupor, perhaps shed a tear or two. Right now, he didn’t have the luxury.

As if they hadn’t been through enough, three more German fighters dropped from the clouds and ambushed them on their way home. The only warning they had was as one of the Hurricane pilots came in over the radio with a warning seconds before his plane burst into flames and crashed into the channel. The storm rolling in made it hard to see, as wind and hidden air pockets buffeted the planes. Collins spent who knows how long playing hide and seek in the clouds, feeling increasingly desperate as he lost contact with the rest of the squadron and his fuel gauge slowly dipped closer and closer to zero.

Night was well on its way to becoming dawn by the time Collins finally limped back to Akeman Street, bullet holes peppering the metal along the side of his plane and the barest dregs of fuel sputtering in his tank. He hadn't even noticed he was injured until one of the ground crew shouted in his ear and hustled him off to the infirmary where they dug metal shrapnel out of his calf.

“You’re late,” Farrier snapped sharply, pulling Collins back into the present. “What?” he said intelligently. Farrier’s jaw muscles twitched as he ground his teeth together and it was only now that Collins saw what he had mistaken for anger was actually fear. Then it all clicked together.

 _Farrier_ , grounded and forced to watch his wingmate fly off into danger without him there to watch his back.

 _Farrier_ , stuck on base as reports trickled in about the dogfight that was taking place across the channel.

 _Farrier_ , feeling completely helpless as Peters and the remaining Hurricane pilot landed on base, without Collins and unable to give an accurate report of what happened because while they hadn't seen him shot down, they hadn't been able to find him either.

 _Farrier_ , whose eyes were over-bright and rippling with everything he wanted to say but wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , because the risks are too high for both of them if he did.

“You’re late,” Farrier said again. This time the words were whispered softly, almost like a prayer. His hand clenched tightly on Collins’ elbow. Collins swallowed thickly, fingers fiddling restlessly at the buttons of his jacket. “Sorry,” he mumbled, staring down at his shoes and trying not to lean too much into the other man’s touch. He felt as much as heard the other man sigh harshly. The grip on his shoulder gentled, sliding up his arm to grip his shoulder instead.

“Let’s get you into bed before you fall down,” Farrier said softly. Collins bit back the protests as the older man helped him out of his jacket, shirt, and tie before shoving him back onto the bed. He did protest when the other bent to undo his shoes. “ ‘m not a child,” Collins snapped, shoving weakly at Farrier’s shoulder.

All this earned him was a slap to the leg. Collins hissed, jerking away as Farrier had managed to hit right across the neat row of stitches. “What—,” Farrier began, sliding a hand softly down Collins calf, pausing as he found the raised edges of the bandages. “You got shot?!” the man exclaimed, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Collins just flopped back onto the bed with a groan.

 

  
2.

“Where the _hell_ were you?”

Farrier raised a curious eyebrow as Collins stumbled into their shared bunk, steps drunkenly uncoordinated. Collins snarled something unintelligible in response as he slammed the door, his normally mild diction thick and slurred. Farrier set his book aside as he watched the younger man struggle with his boots. Collins was cursing under his breath, yanking the laces hard enough to snap them.

“What happened, mate?” he asked as Collins kicked the offending boots into the corner with another snarl. Collins ignored him, fingers fumbling at his jacket buttons. Another growled curse, a sharp yank, and one of the gold buttons snapped off, pinging off the dresser and rolling under the bed.

“Hey now,” Farrier soothed, crossing the small room and boldly covering the Scotsman’s hands with his own. Not for the first time he was amazed by how his hands seemed to dwarf the younger man’s. He was pulled from his brief musings as Collins yanked away sharply with a gruff “Git off!” The abrupt movement overbalanced the intoxicated pilot and sent him sprawling across the floor.

Farrier sighed, crouching to help the man back to his feet. He’d rarely dealt with the man in this sort of state. It was usually the other way around, with the younger man managing his alcohol far better than the older. “Come on, up you get,” Farrier murmured as he hauled Collins into a sitting position. He froze as his eyes fell on the split lip he hadn't noticed before, on the telltale shadow of a bruise beginning to blossom at the corner of the man’s mouth.

“What happened?” he asked softly. Collins just shrugged, glazed and unfocused eyes staring pointedly past Farrier’s shoulder. “Come on, mate,” Farrier pleaded, one hand sliding down to Collin’s wrist while the other moved to grip his shoulder. “Don’t make me beg.”

Farrier’s worry deepened as Collins’ eyes filled, over-bright and brimming as they stared blankly at the wall. “Fuckin’ soldiers,” he finally muttered. “Come again?” he prompted, having no clue what the blonde was talking about.

“Th' soldiers,” the man continued. “Talkin’ ‘bout shite they don’ know nothin’ about. Blam’n us for not being there fir ‘em in France. Say’n their comrades keep look’n up ta empty skies while we sit here on ‘r arses safe ’n sound. When we’ve bin tryin’ our damnedest t’ git over there. Fin’lly couldn’ take list’nin’ anym’r.”

His heart broke as Collins’ breath hitched. “We’ve lost so m’ny, Farrier,” he whispered, eyes finally flicking to meet his. “They keep beatin’ us back and we keep losin’ pilots and Powell—,” Collins snapped his mouth shut, eyes widening as he realized what he let slip.

Farrier frowned, the name nagging something in the back of his mind. He did nothing as Collins shrugged off his hand and stumbled to his feet. Then it clicked. Powell was the rookie that replaced Farrier on that mission three months ago. The rookie who hadn’t come home.

“Ah, Fin,” Farrier said softly as he got to his feet. He swallowed thickly as Collins flinched, head hanging low as he braced his hands against the dresser. Then his shoulders began to shake. Farrier crossed the room in three strides. His hands covered Collins’ as he leaned close up against the younger man because damn the rules, the man was hurting. He tucked his chin atop Collins’ shoulder, holding fast as the man squirmed and tried to pull away even as the tears began to slide down his cheeks.

After a moment he felt the smaller man relax back against him, head hanging low as he slowly regained his composure. This time when Collins pulled away, Farrier let him. He watched silently as the other pilot scrubbed a hand over his face with a sniff, shrugging out of his jacket.

“Are you—,” Farrier began but Collins interrupted him swiftly. “ ’m fine,” he said sharply, not even sparing a glance back to the Englishman as he stripped off his trousers and climbed into bed. He promptly rolled over to face the wall, putting his back to the other pilot as he pulled the blankets up to his chin. Farrier sighed, knowing he wouldn't get anything else from the other man. He turned out the light, climbing into his own bed, but it was a long while before sleep finally took him.

 

  
3.

“ _Where_ the hell were you?”

Farrier said nothing as their Fortis Leader chewed out Collins for being late to call. Collins stood at attention, his face betraying nothing as he took the verbal lashing before the stiff British officer turned on his heel and marched off.

Farrier fell easily into step with the blonde pilot as they followed behind their Flight Leader. He hadn’t seen his wingmate all day leading up to them being pulled abruptly to supply air support for the evacuation across the channel. "So?" he asked, tugging at a strap on his life vest so it sat more comfortably. “Here now, ain’t I?” Collins replied as they strode side by side out towards the hanger.

“Nervous?” Farrier asked as they sidestepped out of the way of a squad of men marching in the opposite direction. “Never,” Collins replied with just enough arrogance to make Farrier chuckle and shake his head. It was a funny thing; with Farrier’s ace pilot reputation everyone always expected him to be the one with all the swagger and attitude. Instead, that was Collins. Not arrogance per-say but the swagger, along with enough confidence for the whole squadron. He was the epitome of a flyboy. Farrier was the quiet one, the one with all the self-possessed control and soft spoken words. 

They paused for a motorcade on the tarmac and Farrier took that moment to glance across to the other man. God, he was perfect. Farrier felt an immediate thrum of guilt and something akin to shame deep in his stomach at the thought. It was just…sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

Strong, straight nose that had never been broken. The most stubborn chin Farrier had ever seen. Spiky blonde hair that refused to be properly tamed by product or restless fingers. Deep blue eyes only enhanced by the deep blue of the man’s jacket, so formal with its bright buttons and crisp tie. So different from Farrier’s own thick knit sweater and wool-lined leather bomber.

That smooth, rolling accent Farrier would happily listen to every day for the rest of his life. A deep rich laugh that made something in his chest feel just a little lighter whenever he heard it. The most graceful hands, whether clenched in anger or shaking in sorrow. A quick wit and sharp eye that never missed anything, even now.

“A picture would last longer,” Collins remarked slyly, eyes looking nowhere but forward even as the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “Git,” Farrier responded without much heat as the last truck cleared out of their way and they continued across the tarmac to where their respective planes were being fuellled.

Fortis Leader was already settled into the cockpit of his Spitfire, going over the last few checks as the ground crew detached the fuel lines. “Stay safe up there,” Farrier said as they split off at the nose of Farrier’s plane. “See you in the sky,” Collins called over his shoulder with a quick smile and a borderline mocking salute.

 

  
4.

“Where the hell were _you_?”

Collins’ breath hitched and caught in his chest as the soldier strode past him, hollow-looking eyes burning with anger and open hatred as he glared up at him. The pilot bit back the harsh words that threatened to bubble past his lips. This man had just survived hell. He was hurting and angry and looking for someone to blame. Collins was just the closest target.

It didn’t make it any easier to hear. It struck too close to home, too close to the guilt that sat heavily under his ribs. He’d failed his mission. He never made it to Dunkirk, instead being forced to ditch, leaving his wingmate to fly on alone. He’d been grounded, able to do nothing but watch as the German Heinkel descended on them. When it dropped its load on the minesweeper, Collins could feel the impact in his bones as the shrieks of metal and men alike clawed at his ears. He had never felt so helpless in his life.

He watched as Farrier’s Spitfire suddenly appeared, dogging it out with the Heinkel and a 109 Fighter in the skies above him. “Come on, Farrier,” he’d murmured softly to himself, ignoring the looks the young civilian lad levied his way. “Come on, come on.”

He watched as Farrier banked hard, getting in behind the Heinkel; heard the familiar rattle of gunfire and felt a rush of triumph as the Heinkel’s engines began to smoke. Dread quickly replaced the feeling, coiling uneasily in his stomach as he stared out at the thick black oil that burbled across the water, seeping closer to the boat with each passing moment and the flaming bomber streaking towards it.

“Go,” he said softly, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the dozens of men still in the water, bobbing helplessly amongst the slick. “Go! Go! Go! Go!” he screamed back into the cabin of the pleasure cruiser. He stumbled as the boat lurched underneath him, racing away from the danger.

He couldn't look away as the smoking bomber crashed. It seemed to happen in slow motion and then the sea erupted into flame. He looked away, unable to watch but unable to block out the screams of the men left behind. His eyes found the sky again. He watched in horror as Farrier’s Spitfire glided smoothly above him, not towards British soil, not towards home, but towards Dunkirk.

He knew Farrier didn’t have enough fuel to make it back to base. Hopefully, he’d have enough to land on the beaches. If he could just make it to the beaches, he’d hopefully be able to join the rest of the evacuation. Or if he didn’t, the swell was still calm enough that he should be able to ditch and hopefully be picked up by the boats returning across the channel.

That was a lot of ‘ _hopefully_ ’s. Rationally, Collins knew it was a thin hope, barely existent, but he had to hope. He had to. The alternative was too painful.

He was started out of his memories by a hand gripping his shoulder. He turned in surprise to find Mr. Dawson looking at him with gentle understanding in his eyes. He threw a look to the men still slowly filling off the _Moonstone_ , shedding their lifejackets as they went.

“They know where you were.”

Collins swallowed thickly. He shook the man’s hand because he didn’t trust his voice. He gave the man a thin smile, trying to silently convey exactly what the man’s words meant to him. This man who lost his son to the skies, who didn’t blame Collins for failing his duty because he didn’t see it as a failure.

 

  
5.

“Where the hell _were_ you?”

Collins whispered those words to himself often; when he stood next to soldiers and civilians alike, watching some stuffy politician pin a medal of bravery on his chest for what he did during the evacuation; in the middle of the night, when he woke from dreams filled with fire and oil and screaming men; when he first got back into the cockpit of a Spitfire after the evacuation, his hands trembling so much he could barely grip the priming handle.

When he learned that Farrier never made it off the beaches at Dunkirk.

He’d pieced together a mostly complete picture of what happened in the days after returning to Britain; a single Spitfire had been seen gliding over the beaches, propeller still and engine silent. Moments later, the same Spitfire was seen quietly coasting back after having brought down a German bomber headed for the rescue boats. The last anyone saw was the plane heading over the line into German controlled territory.

Two weeks later, he was called in by his Wing Commander. The findings of the recon mission across the channel had brought back the news of the charred wreck of a Supermarine Spitfire landed on the beach. He listened without really listening after that as the rest of the report was rattled off by the officer in a bland monotone voice. He tuned back in when the man told him to gather Farrier’s things to be sent back to his mother in London.

“What?” he said blankly. His Commander gave him a pitying look. “Son,” he said, in that stern yet understanding tone that reminded Collins of when his father had still been alive and telling him that his mother wasn’t coming home. “He’s gone. Best for everyone not to dwell.” The man kept talking, saying things about bunk reassignment and stress leave, but Collins wasn't listening anymore again.

He walked in a trace back to his barracks, sitting down on his bed, staring across the room at the other empty cot. He could almost see Farrier there now, lounging across the bed with his feet kicked up against the headboard as he read a book. Collins never knew the man had so many until this afternoon when he packed up Farrier’s meagre belongings.

Collins found six books underneath the bed along with a small, rarely-read bible; a couple pairs of extra socks along with two sets of civilian clothes and Farrier’s dress uniform; a shaving kit, comb, and pomade; the knit blanket that Farrier’s mother had sent him on his birthday; a small, ornately carved silver cross he'd never seen the man wear.

Farrier's entire existence just stacked into a single box that Collins could lift in one hand. It seemed so cruel. So very cruel. Collins sat down heavily, unable to stop the ' _what ifs'_ from circling in his brain. What if Farrier hadn’t died in the crash? What if he’d landed safely and torched his plane after? What if he’d been captured and not outright executed? _What if_ …..

Only silence answered him but it was enough. He already knew the answer. He had failed. He'd been shot from the sky and grounded. He had failed his wing mate, his friend, the man he trained with, flown with, bled with. The man he lo—.

He had failed. That was all that mattered. He sniffed, scrubbing a hand across his stinging eyes. He got to his feet, clearing his throat as he moved to close the box. He paused, although froze might be a better word for it. On a whim he grabbed the first book from the box and tossed it without looking back onto his bed. He then closed the box and handed it off for delivery.

Later that night, after getting thoroughly sauced, Collins stumbled back into the room. His blurry eyes caught sight of the book still lying where he’d tossed it on his bed. He stumbled over, snatching it up with numb fingers. The title The Hobbit stood out in bold letters across the top. He staggered over to the light and turned it on. Collins had insisted on moving it closer to Farrier’s side of the room after seeing the man squinting one to many times as he tried to read late at night. He flipped open the cover and his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of a familiar, loopy writing. He'd teased the man so much over his writing, saying it was too pretty for such a beefy bloke.

 

 _Never took you for much of a reader but I think you’ll like this one._  
_Don’t mind me reading it first. Happy Birthday, Flyboy._

_JWF_

 

His birthday had been two days ago. He had completely forgot. Collins sat down abruptly on the other man's bed as his knees were suddenly unable to support his weight. Of all the books he randomly grabbed in an idiotic impulse of wanting to keep just a little piece of Farrier for himself and he picked this one. “Where the hell _were_ you?” he gasped softly to himself as his chest constricted painfully. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks as he finally allowed himself to grieve.

 

 

 

+1.

Collins was in his office, which still sounded and felt weird, sorting through the massive stacks of paperwork when his phone rang. “Collins,” he answered, only half paying attention to the voice of the other side. “Is this Flight Lieutenant Collins?”

“Speaking,” Collins said, riffling through the file to try and find that misplaced supply memo. “Fin Collins?” the man on the other side repeated. “Who is this?” he replied slowly, the call now holding his whole attention. Only one person had ever called him Fin...

“Do you know a RAF pilot by the name of James William Farrier?” Collins felt his blood run cold, the phone plastic squeaking under his hand as his grip tightened. “What is this about?” he asked softly, not daring to hope but also unable not to. He sat very still, not even breathing in case somehow he missed the man’s next words, hoping without hope for two particular words. His closed his eyes against the sharp sting that prickled the corners of his eyes as he heard those two words.

“He’s alive.”

 

“Have a seat, Lieutenant,” the doctor said, gesturing to the line of chairs lining the hallway. Collins sat stiffly, trying to ignore the smell of bleach that burned at his nostrils and focused on the tweedy man in front of him. “Tell me, how much do you know about Mr. Farrier’s condition?”

Collins swallowed thickly, speaking in a flat monotone voice as he kept his feelings strictly in check. He had been told Farrier was found by the Russians during the liberation of  _Stalag Luft I_ , a prisoner-of-war camp in Western Germany. It had taken a few months to sort everyone out, between the thousand of American, British, and Canadian airmen that had been rescued. It had taken a while but eventually Farrier had been identified and transferred back to Britain, finally settling here in London.

“What you have to understand, Lieutenant,” the doctor said slowly, a grim line to his mouth. “The conditions of those camps were…well, to say _horrific_ would be a grave understatement. You should prepare yourself.”

“Can I see him?” Collins asked, resisting the urge to run his hands nervously through his hair but meeting the doctor’s gaze steadily. The man sighed, a sad look in his eyes, but he nodded and led Collins through a warren of hallways into a large ward. They passed bed after bed of men who’d lost limbs and eyes or others who just stared off into space like they weren’t there anymore. Collins took a slow breath, trying not to imagine which one Farrier would be.

Finally the doctor stopped, gesturing to the last bed in the row by the window. “Speak slowly and clearly, he's suffered some hearing loss,” the doctor advised, clapping a hand on his shoulder before leaving him alone. Collins swallowed, finding his throat dry and painful.

He took another breath, shakier and more uneven than before, and stepped closer. His breath caught in his throat and he froze at the foot of the bed. Farrier’s eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling softly as he slept and Collins thanked God for it because in that moment he lost all control over his facial expression.

God, he was so thin. Farrier had always been this broad brick-house of a man, barely fitting into his bunk on base. If he hadn’t have been pointed out, Collins was honestly unsure if he would even have recognized the man.

Farrier’s cheeks were hollowed and sunken, deep circles bruising under his eyes. His cheek- and collarbones stuck our sharply against his skin. The top of one of his ear was missing and a thick ropey scar, still pink in its newness, wrapped around the side of his jaw and up across his temple.

But he was alive.

Five years. Five painful years Collins spent thinking that his—this man was dead, and yet still holding on to that awful sliver of a hope because Farrier’s body was never found. His tags were never found. And now, here he was. Right in front of him. Breathing. _Alive_.

Collins ran a hand through his hair as he stepped closer, chewing on the inside of his lip. This was a mistake. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't been here. This was a mistake. Farrier could only hate him. How could he not? He swallowed thickly, imagining Farrier opening his eyes, seeing nothing but hate and betrayal burning in those familiar blue-green eyes; imagining him spitting hateful words, echoing the same words Collins had been torturing himself with for the last five years.

_Where the hell were you?_

He took a step back, his foot colliding with the leg of the bed in his clumsy haste to leave, to run. It made a quiet thunking sound but it was enough. Farrier’s eyes blinked open and Collins froze. Those eyes blinked blearily, hazy with drugs and sleep. Then they locked on Collins.

Collins braced himself, staring into those confused-looking, painfully familiar eyes. His jaw muscles ached from clenching his teeth as he watched Farrier’s eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as his breath rattled in sharply. His eyes fell to his shoes, unable to see the switch when the anger and betrayal to win out over the shock.

But nothing happened. No words broke the quiet, save for the hustle of the hospital, the quiet murmur of the nurses, the far off cries of pain. Finally, the silence got too much to bare and Collins slowly lifted his gaze. Now he just wanted to get it over with. His heart stopped dead in his chest as he met Farrier’s gaze and he didn’t see anger, or hate, or anything of the sort.

Shock and surprise still lingered as tears welled in the corner of the man’s eyes, but his eyes shone with something else. Something that was not even remotely on the same spectrum of anger. And when he spoke, voice hoarse and cracking, it wasn't the words that Collins feared it would be. Instead, it was something much, much simpler.

“You’re here.”

Collins’ breath hiccuped as he inhaled sharply. He didn’t know what to say or what to do. A slight movement caught his attention, solving the problem for him. Farrier’s fingers beckoned his way softly, the movement stiff and uncoordinated. It was really the barest twitching movement but Collins got the idea. He took two jerky steps forward, moving to perch gingerly on the edge of the bed. “You’re here,” Farrier whispered again, something akin to wonder in his eyes.

There was also fear lingering there, tucked away in the corners, like he was afraid Collins might disappear at any moment. That he wasn’t real. Collins felt his eyes burn as a gentle, hesitant touch brushed against his hand. He looped a finger through one of Farrier’s, squeezing gently.

“You’re late,” he whispered, mirroring a conversation from a lifetime ago. A fragile yet genuine smile pulled softly at Farrier's lips. "Sorry," he murmured, just as his eyes began to flutter shut. “Fin,” he mumbled, blinking his eyes open again as his breath stuttered in panic. “I’m here, James,” Collins whispered, discreetly rubbing his thumb against Farrier’s fingers.

_Where the hell were you?_

“I’m right here.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is my fairy dust!! Let me know if you like how I write this pairing! Trying out something new is always nerve-wracking! xx


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